Save You More Than This
by MissAnnThropic
Summary: Dean is not coping well after being freed from Hell, and Castiel helps him deal with what he's been through. Not Dean/Castiel slash, but you wouldn't have to squint very much to see it!
1. Chapter 1

Title: Save You More Than This

Author: MissAnnThropic

Spoilers: early Season 4

LiveJournal: miss_annthropic(dot)livejournal(dot)com

Summary: Dean is not coping well after being freed from Hell, and Castiel helps him deal with what he's been through. Not Dean/Castiel slash, but you wouldn't have to squint very much to see it!

Disclaimer: None of it's mine. I'm just a sad little fangirl that spends her days writing fanfic and watching DVDs of her favorite shows :(

Author's Note: Thanks to bellajayd for the beta!

* * *

The world in an angel's eyes was blurry and indistinct, like a horizon out of focus and always moving. Humanity rushed by like a waterfall, every drop a soul and the whole drowning in fuzzy lines. Bits and pieces jumped out in crystal clarity. Needs and sins, righteousness and evil. The black and white of life. The grays were the background noise, the roar of the falls.

Dean's torment leapt at Castiel, the razor-sharpness of its edges like a physical pain. He wished Dean's pain didn't slice into him in phantom slashes. He didn't want to hurt with Dean. Because Dean hurt all the time. Sam had no idea how much his brother suffered. Castiel alone knew how truly close to broken Dean Winchester teetered.

The angels were meant to allow the humans to manage on their own. Their agony was their measure of joy. Their toil their tithe to God.

Dean was saved from Hell, and that should have been divine intervention enough.

Castiel felt the stab of Dean's pain like a knife. It came amid a constant low-grade ache, a torture twisted sharp in an endless sea of pain. It was so deep. There was so much of it.

Castiel found himself standing at the foot of the bed where Dean lay without really meaning to be there, as if he'd been called. He was made to answer to suffering, and there was too much suffering in Dean.

It was night. A storm raged outside, yet it was nothing like the storm raging inside Dean.

Castiel had no idea where Sam was. Actually, he had a very good idea where Sam was, but he had not come to tackle that monster tonight, so he would not think about it.

He wasn't sure why he had come but that Dean's agony had screamed to him above the din of the world. That alone said so much of the torture packed tight within Dean's skin. Castiel thought sometimes that if Dean were cut, it wouldn't be blood that spilled forth… it would be screams.

Dean was lying in bed, trying to sleep and falling apart instead.

Castiel stood, hands at his sides, as Dean panted and gasped in his sleep. Hell ravaged Dean in his dreams, nightmares worse than any person on Earth could fathom. Dean's soul was damaged, blackened and left raw by torture and fire.

The hammering rain and thunder outside muffled the sound of Dean's strangled cries, except Castiel heard them as clearly as a prayer.

In a sense, they were. A crying soul begging for salvation.

Castiel had saved Dean from Hell, but not enough. Hell was not a place left behind; it lingered, it tormented from afar, it held Dean even now.

Dean's body locked, muscles tightening in tandem, just shy of a seizure.

This was beyond a human's ability to endure. Even a man like Dean Winchester. Sam couldn't touch this, couldn't fix this. Dean looked to Sam for the kind of relief Sam used to be, only to come away frustrated when all Sam could think to give didn't make a dent in the pit in Dean that bloomed like a flower of flame.

Dean was dissolving into fire a little more every day, a slow burn Castiel felt he must stop.

Thunder cracked close and loud, shaking the windows of the motel room. Dean jolted awake, a scream trapped in his throat.

Castiel watched, felt, ached.

Dean choked for air, body slicked with sweat. Hell scorched him in his sleep. It gave him a fever, burning him even beyond the gates of Hell.

Dean finally began to breathe. It came in strained gasps, fought-for gulps of cool air to sooth his fiery lungs.

Dean fought for his bearings, even as he struggled to sit up in bed. He turned his head to the side, as if on instinct, to the empty bed next to his. A sibilant consonant began to fall from his parched lips, a scratchy, "Sss…" but the bed was empty and his voice died unborn.

His body began to shake. Skin that had been convinced it was engulfed in flames only a moment ago would think air at room temperature was tantamount to freezing. There was no happy medium, no comfort zone; everything hurt one way or another.

Castiel never spoke a word. There was no indication from Dean that the hunter knew he was being watched, but just then Dean turned his eyes up to Castiel like he'd always known the angel would be there.

Lightning illuminated Dean's face sporadically, but the gleam of pleading and despair in Dean's eyes were the same every time.

"It _hurts_, Cas…" Dean whispered brokenly. It was a confession to the last soul that Dean could turn to in a world that could no longer understand him. In so many ways, having lived through Hell, Dean was isolated from all those who would stand next to him. He was human, yes, but beyond human comprehension.

The angel quietly walked to the bed and sat on the edge. He leaned in and looked long and hard at Dean. The hunter's eyes were closed, his head bowed, tears tracking down his cheeks.

"He loves you too much to allow this," Castiel whispered softly, whether to convince Dean or himself, he wasn't sure. But Castiel believed it. He knew _someone_ loved Dean too much, and Castiel would believe that it was God. No loving God would let Dean go through this without something to support him when it was so clearly an unearthly burden to bear.

Dean grimaced, opened his eyes, and looked miserably at Castiel.

If there was anything odd in finding an angel perched on the edge of a hunter's bed in the middle of the night, neither of them could see it. Dean searched Castiel's face desperately for something. The look in his green eyes was just as much confusion as pain; he didn't know what he was looking for from the angel.

Castiel knew.

Without really thinking, just reacting to the pain, Castiel brought up a hand and gently raked his fingers through Dean's wet hair. Castiel felt the touch of his divinity seep into Dean like a cool center spreading over heat, a balm on an infected wound.

Dean sucked in a stuttered breath, closed his eyes, and leaned into Castiel's touch.

"_Cas_…" Dean rasped weakly, needing something he couldn't ask for.

Castiel touched his palm to Dean's jaw, fingers splayed over sweaty skin. He could feel Dean's heartbeat in the thin skin over his throat, the hunter's pulse racing but strong. Such strength in Dean, bound up with the weakness.

Dean sighed, body starting to relax in the wake of Castiel's heavenly contact with a tortured soul.

It was all Castiel could do without further orders from his Father, but maybe it was enough.

Castiel began to draw away, but Dean's hand flew up and clasped Castiel's wrist in a tight grip.

Castiel froze and stared at Dean.

Dean reluctantly opened his eyes and meet Castiel's gaze. His eyes asked the question that Dean never would. Hell had twisted more than Dean's soul; it had warped his concept of right and wrong. Before Dean had been sent to Hell, he would never dream to ask for what he wanted now.

Castiel moved into Dean again, not away, and he bade simply, "Sleep, Dean."

* * *

When Sam crept back into the motel room he shared with his brother, the rain had slacked but the storm still growled and rumbled angrily. Sam trusted the thunder to mask his return. He couldn't wake Dean, couldn't answer the questions Dean would ask.

The room was dark when he slipped back inside.

Sam let out a breath of relief.

That same breath hitched in his chest when a flash of lightning illuminated the room.

Dean was in bed, lying on his side, and Castiel was in bed with him. The two men were spooned together, Dean almost folded into a fetal position and Castiel curled around the hunter. Dean was wearing only his t-shirt and boxer briefs while Castiel was down to his suit, the overcoat tossed across the foot of the bed.

On the next flicker of bolt-born light, Sam saw their limbs. Legs were folded so exactly that they fit together like a jigsaw puzzle. Dean's arms were tucked close to his chest but held laxly. Castiel was holding Dean with one arm thrown over the young hunter's side, open hand resting against his chest.

Sam stood frozen in place by the door, dripping and blinking into blackness.

When lightning gave him sight again, he was met with blue eyes. Castiel looked straight at Sam.

There was no apology. No explanation. Castiel never explained or justified himself, not to Sam, the Winchester with demon blood.

Sam didn't know what to think, what to say, until the next flash of light when he looked at Dean's face.

He knew Dean didn't sleep well, that he hadn't since returning from Hell. Nightmares plagued him. He denied them, but Sam wasn't stupid. Dean was hurting.

But at that moment, lying in the arms of an angel, Dean's expression was peaceful. There was no pain, no fear, no anger, no torment. He slept. For the first time since he'd been saved from Hell, he slept in peace.

And that was all that mattered. Sam didn't want to question it.

If anything, he was grateful.

He would have expressed his gratitude to Castiel if he thought the angel would take it, but the soldiers of Heaven had been standoffish with Sam at best. He knew why. So did they. There was no point bringing up the details. Sam would settle for a détente, at least so long as the angels could help his brother.

When next Sam could make out Castiel's eyes, Sam offered a small smile as thanks. All Sam prayed for was for Dean to find a safe harbor… he wouldn't question what form it took.

Lightning flickered again and Sam imagined he saw the two men, Dean and Castiel, curled in bed together, but also the silhouette of Castiel's wing spread over Dean like a blanket.

To Be Continued…


	2. Chapter 2

Sam drove in the night, his grip on the steering wheel the outlet for all his frustration. He wanted to rage. Inside, he did. But he couldn't let Dean see it. Couldn't let his brother know. The Winchester that had always been the keeper became the one to be tended.

Dean was not okay, no matter how much he professed to be. Sam knew that. He just didn't know what he could do about it.

For all the unnatural strength in him, Sam still wasn't strong enough to free Dean of his demons.

Dean was in the back seat. He'd passed the keys off to Sam after wiping his face on his sleeve and crawled in the back of the Impala without a word.

That he handed off his baby with so little care, so much apathy, made Sam swallow the thump that always seemed ready to lodge in his throat ever since he woke up from death in Cold Oak.

That Dean chose the back seat and not the passenger side gave Sam even more pause. It dredged up ugly memories. The last time he saw his brother in the back seat was when the Impala was hit by the semi. Sam still remembered Dean's image in the rearview mirror, sick with internal bleeding and mouth leaking blood.

But Sam didn't ask. He let so much go lately with Dean, and his brother withdrawing to the back seat without a word of explanation was just one more thing Sam let go.

For hours Sam drove. Dean didn't talk and Sam didn't know what to say.

"_I wish I couldn't feel anything, Sammy_." The words haunted Sam, and they were a ghost Sam couldn't put to rest. There was nothing to salt and burn that would stop that phantom echo. The words were in Dean, even after they'd left his mouth.

What was Sam supposed to say? What words could even make a dent in the horror of which Dean had spoken? There wasn't enough beer in the world to talk that one out over. Drown the world in beer, and it still wouldn't be enough.

Dean sat in the back in silence until dark. His presence was a black hole of energy without voice, without light, sucking in everything around him until he didn't say a word, hardly breathed, and yet the entire world was about him. Tumbling inward, ripped to shreds in the teeth of his torment. Sam felt that even his own thoughts were being helplessly drawn backward, freefalling toward his broken brother.

When night fell, Dean drifted off, and Sam knew as soon as Dean slept, because he began to make sounds.

Frail, twisted, heart-breaking sounds of someone reliving Hell behind his eyelids.

Sam swallowed the knot of anger and grief in his throat, tightened his hands on the wheel, and drove. He couldn't wake Dean every time he had nightmares; he would be waking Dean all the time, and Dean needed some sleep. Even if it was tortured.

But it was so hard for Sam to listen to.

He didn't pull over. Pale comfort though it was, Dean's nightmares weren't as bad when he slept in the Impala. Her engine and the thrum of her tires on asphalt were a lullaby to him. It wasn't much, but Sam would give Dean whatever respite he could wrest from the world with bleeding hands.

Sam would move Heaven and Hell if he could to bring his brother peace.

Maybe one day he'd be strong enough to do it. Until then, he drove.

Suddenly Dean stopped crying in his sleep, the back seat went silent without warning, and Sam's eyes jerked to the rearview mirror, seeking his brother's reflection.

He found Castiel sitting in the back seat with Dean leaning against his side. Dean's head was resting on Castiel's shoulder. The lines of agony in his face had smoothed away as Castiel gently brushed an angelic touch over Dean's so-recently troubled brow.

Dean breathed in deeply, then out slowly. It wasn't taut and tortured, it wasn't strained through a pent-up scream. It was air, breathing, surrender to a place that didn't await him with fire and blood.

Castiel glanced up and met Sam's eyes in the mirror.

Sam moved his eyes back to the road. He had never told Dean about catching his brother and the angel in bed together that stormy night and he never would. He knew he would never tell Dean about this, either. If he made Dean answer for it, Dean might run from it. Sam wouldn't risk it. Dean had found a way to sleep in peace, without pain and fear his bedmates… so what if that meant making an angel a bedmate instead to do it?

Sam thanked God for Castiel, even as he hated the angel for being what Dean needed. Sam would give anything if he could be the one to comfort his brother.

But he wasn't, so he drove.

To Be Continued…


	3. Chapter 3

Sometimes, if Castiel's touch lingered on Dean's skin long enough, it would stop being just a welcome numbness to the pain and edge toward something almost pleasant. He almost felt it, the one thing he thought he might actually _want_ to feel.

Dean lay still in bed, afraid to move and end the blissful nothingness Castiel's fingers brought. He wasn't wearing a shirt, intentionally shed to have nothing between his skin and Castiel's hands.

"This would be less weird if you'd picked a woman for a vessel," Dean murmured, eyes still closed.

Castiel's hand froze, a cool spot holding steady on Dean's ribcage, and the arrested motion made Dean cautiously open his eyes. Castiel stared back at him, lying facing Dean so closely on the bed that, before he'd died and gone to Hell, Dean would have been scrambling to get out of the bed with a few choice swear words.

But now… his soul had known hellfire, and only the angel's touch soothed the burn.

Castiel looked at Dean a long time, unblinking and facial features perfectly schooled, but Dean had learned to read the neutral expressions Castiel so well affected. There was curiosity and thought. Always, Dean felt Castiel observing him as if the human was a half-wild animal the angel couldn't quite understand, despite how far they'd come, despite the fact that there were only six inches of mattress between them.

"Would it be easier for you if I found another form?" Castiel asked.

Dean searched Castiel's face intently. "You can do that?"

Castiel gave a faint half-nod. Something in the angel almost felt, an almost-sensation that was almost sharp, but in the end it was too far removed from divine for Castiel to understand it.

In the silence, Dean looked hard at Castiel's expression for any signs of reaction. If Dean had suggested a different face, a different body, a different dynamic to the eyes of the outside world… would Castiel feel anything about that? Did angels get offended?

When Dean didn't protest to the idea, Castiel shifted as though to leave that very moment and find another vessel. Dean had enough to suffer; if there was something Castiel could do to ease the burden already overpowering the shattered human, he would try it.

Dean's drew in a breath as Castiel's fingers slid toward leaving him, as though he was afraid he'd stop existing when Castiel wasn't grounding him.

"No," Dean whispered.

Castiel froze, one fingertip still grazing Dean's skin.

Dean offered a paltry imitation of the devil-may-care smirk he used to own so fully. "Holy tax accountant works." Dean licked his lips hesitantly before adding, "I've gotten used to your face."

Castiel tried to decide how sincere Dean was.

He knew Dean was when he rolled on to his stomach, effectively tucking himself tighter into Castiel's personal space. If an angel really had personal space. Castiel let his hand come to rest on the expanse of Dean's back, and the hunter closed his eyes again and reveled in _not_ feeling.

"Cas…"

"Yes?"

Dean's brow furrowed against the pillow. "Sam knows about… this."

"I know."

Dean cracked open an eye and peered up at Castiel.

Castiel frowned slightly when Dean just continued to scrutinize Castiel from a face half-buried in cotton. "Was there more to that?" Castiel asked, though he suspected he already knew. Dean wouldn't stand to be seen as needing anyone to be strong; if Sam knew, Dean would push Castiel away.

It was Dean's right, and Castiel would respect it, but he would grieve the decision. There was no reason Dean should suffer needlessly any more than he already had. Sparing Dean his pain felt like God's work. Without that, Castiel wouldn't know what to be or how to be.

At length, Dean closed both eyes again and burrowed into the pillow. "Just… needed to say it."

On impulse, Castiel moved his hand from Dean's back and threaded his fingers through Dean's hair. It was a human gesture that Castiel had observed countless times through the ages, but only now did he really understand the utility of it. Only with Dean did he begin to understand the benediction found in a simple touch.

Dean smiled faintly to himself. There was something about it that was unrelated to the slide of Castiel's fingers through Dean's hair.

"What?" Castiel asked.

"When I was little… at bedtime," Dean's voice was growing sleepy, languorous and deep, "Mom used to tell me that angels were watching over me." Dean smiled again, wistful and sad, but it slipped as Dean's consciousness lost its foothold.

Castiel leaned into Dean, brought his lips to Dean's ear, and whispered, "I'm watching over you. Sleep."

Dean did, and Castiel watched over him.

To Be Continued…


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I know, this one's a shortie. I'm trying to keep it to one scene to a chapter, and this just happened to be a snippet of a scene.

* * *

Sam found Dean standing in front of a bathroom mirror one morning in nothing but a towel, staring at his reflection. He'd just gotten out of the shower. His skin was wet, his hair plastered flat, and his image foggy in the mirror clouded with condensation.

He looked confused.

"Dean?" Sam asked as he slowly approached his older brother, concerned.

Dean cocked his head fractionally, studying his own image, then he looked down at his left arm.

"This isn't like having 'Castiel forever' tattooed on me, is it?"

Sam's eyes fell to the handprint scarred onto Dean's upper arm, the brand he received when he was raised from Hell.

Sam didn't have the heart to say that he thought it was. Because it might piss Dean off, and maybe worse, it might _not_ piss Dean off.

Instead, Sam shrugged. "Could have been worse. He could have grabbed you on the ass."

Dean smirked.

Sam started to reach out to casually fit his own hand over the print, curious about how it would feel and fit under his own hand, but Dean saw his brother's intent out of the corner of his eye and flinched away.

Sam drew back as though he'd been struck.

Dean only then seemed to realize he'd pulled away, and he tried to play it off as nothing, but Sam had already felt the sting.

To Be Continued…


	5. Chapter 5

Once, Sam stood alone on an empty road in the middle of the night with his head tilted back to face the sky and called for Castiel. He'd seen it work for Dean before. He knew the angel could be summoned.

But Castiel didn't answer Sam's call. It didn't surprise him and yet it still managed to hurt just the same. He had believed for so long, clung to his faith when events in his life would mean to tear it away, and it was his historically agnostic brother's call that could summon angels. Sam was just the tainted boy, damned before he could walk.

It wasn't fair, but Sam was used to getting a raw deal in life.

Frustrated and helpless, Sam prayed instead. "God," he spoke brokenly to the stars, "God… please… bring my brother peace. He's been restless lately. I don't know what to do, but he doesn't sleep, he doesn't stop. He hunts past the point of exhaustion… I'm afraid he's going to hunt until there's nothing left of him."

It didn't slip Sam's notice that Dean's frantic work ethic and sleepless nights had been going on for exactly as long as Castiel had been absent. For exactly that long and getting longer. They didn't know where the angel was, but Sam had not caught his brother with the angel for more than a week.

Sam never thought he'd see the day when he would hate _not_ finding Dean and Castiel sharing a bed.

"God, if you can hear me… bring Dean peace."

The sky was silent in answer, and under the canopy of starlight Sam felt so small and useless.

Before turning away from the open sky, Sam thought to be a little more specific. "God… send Castiel to Dean."

* * *

When Sam crept back into the motel room he was sharing with his brother that night, it was to find Castiel lying primly on his back in the middle of Dean's bed. Dean was curled into Castiel's side, one hand fisted in the angel's shirt even while in a deep and peaceful slumber.

Sam stood stock-still in the room and stared at the pair of them. He wondered if Dean could feel the feathers of Castiel's invisible wings; he had to be lying across one given the way Castiel was on his back.

Sam envied Dean knowing what it would be like to sleep pillowed on an angel's wing.

Castiel looked at Sam in the silence of the dark motel room, and Sam wondered why Castiel had shown up tonight. Was it because Sam prayed, or because Dean finally needed the angel enough to be a priority?

Sam didn't know the answer, couldn't read it in Castiel's face, but he knew the answer would have a profound impact on the foundation of Sam's faith. Could give it life or shatter it.

So he decided maybe he didn't want to know.

A soft beep from Sam's pocket broke the eye contact between Sam and Castiel. Sam fished out his phone and checked the new text message.

It was from Ruby. She wanted to meet him.

Sam looked up at Castiel playing body pillow to his older brother, and in his gut Sam knew Castiel knew.

Sam started to move back toward the door.

Castiel shifted on the mattress, maybe to try and stop Sam, but Dean felt the angel moving in his sleep and clutched Castiel's shirt tighter. He grimaced, then he whimpered, "Sammy…"

Sam froze. For a second, the whole world stopped. Then Sam smiled faintly to himself. Even after everything Castiel had become to Dean, after all the things Sam fell short of being, Dean still called for Sam in his sleep. The day Dean started to ask for Castiel in his sleep, Sam would probably fall apart.

Castiel stilled and lay unmoving. Dean settled and dropped back to untroubled rest.

Dean's unconscious call was almost enough to stop Sam from walking out the door.

Almost.

To Be Continued…


	6. Chapter 6

Castiel never knew when Dean's pain was going to call to him until it hit. With Dean, the agony was always sharp and sudden, erupting from the constant ache of a soul that was being asked to return to a world not meant for the recently damned. Dean was scarred beyond recognition, inside a tangled mess, and normal was asking just as much strength of him as Hell had.

Castiel had to believe that every angel felt Dean's pain when it flared, but he was the only one that ever answered it.

He tried not to think that Dean was his in some strange ecclesiastic way, but no other angel ever went to bring him peace. Only ever Castiel. It was hard not to get attached. It was hard not to feel propriety and protective. Dean was his to heal, to shelter, to remind of his salvation when the memories of Hell would make Dean feel less than saved.

Castiel wondered, sometimes, if this was how guardian angels were born. He would gladly be Dean's. A line had been crossed, and Castiel knew that only a call from his Father would tear Castiel from Dean's side. One human had become important above all others.

Perhaps God allowed the attachment because Dean _was_ more important than other humans, not just to Castiel.

Castiel was somewhere between the Heavens and Earth when Dean's pain spiked; it seemed to race straight through the cosmos to burrow into Castiel's sternum. Gradually, it began to seem that Dean's grief, his torment, was meant for Castiel to hear. It stopped seeming like amorphous agony and sounded like Dean calling Castiel's name.

There was only one other call Castiel answered faster.

Castiel felt Dean's torment lance him from afar, and had Castiel been in actual physical form, he thought Dean's pain might have dropped him.

Castiel focused on Dean, his shattered soul, and suddenly he was standing in the rain in the dead of night. It was a parking lot, the asphalt a black and unforgiving lake. The rain was coming down in sheets, instantly drenching Castiel though he did not feel it.

Dean was alone, on his knees, shoulders bowed. He was soaked, bent, and shaking.

Hell had found Dean in his sleep again, tormenting him in his dreams. Castiel prayed for something more he could do. The comfort he could give Dean was so fleeting, dependent on Castiel's presence and touch. He would do anything to find a better way to bring Dean peace.

He knew of only one, one ultimate release from pain, but Dean had things yet to do on Earth. So it would seem that Dean must continue to suffer.

Dean's body was wracked with shivers. He sucked in a labored breath and jerkily turned his face up to Castiel, as though he knew the angel was there, even though Castiel had not spoken a word.

If there was a specific supernatural sense that tied Castiel to Dean Winchester, it seemed the connection went both ways. Dean always turned to Castiel in a heartbeat. He didn't have to be conscious for it to hold true; Castiel could quietly climb into bed with Dean thrashing in the grips of a nightmare, and Dean would immediately roll toward Castiel, a desperately searching hand reaching out for trench coat and unseen feathers.

Castiel had not arrived in time to ease the horrors of Dean's sleep; he knew that as he looked down at a figure greater than most men now reduced to smaller than them all.

Dean blinked raindrops from his eyes as he sought Castiel's face in the darkness.

"Dean…" Castiel said softly, part reassurance and part question.

"I wake up thinking I'm burning," Dean said brokenly by way of explanation for his escape into the cold rain.

Castiel frowned. It was a new expression he was getting good at.

"I can't…" Dean croaked.

Castiel knelt down in a puddle and reached out to the young man. When his hand closed over Dean's shoulder, the hunter visibly jolted. Castiel fit his hand over his own print branded into Dean's flesh. He felt the raised skin of Dean's scar as Castiel perfectly fit his palm and fingers over the handhold that Castiel had taken to tear Dean from Hell.

It was a hand's span of Dean that belonged to Castiel. It was claimed. Castiel was the only person who was permitted to touch it freely. Castiel had once watched, discretely and intrigued, as Sam tried to lay his hand over the mark on Dean's shoulder as Castiel so often fit his over the imprint on the hunter's body, like a child's handprint pressed into clay. Dean had flinched away. It was as if only Castiel's hand belonged there.

Castiel had felt oddly about that, but he didn't understand enough of humanity to know what it meant.

In the rain-pelted parking lot, Dean swayed on his knees, on the verge of falling, and then leaned into Castiel. Dean's eyes were closed, his teeth clenched together to bite back cries. Dean's hands, that had been fisted tight against his chest as though holding together flesh torn by hellhounds, opened slowly and began to reach for Castiel. He found Castiel's hips by blind contact, and Castiel brought his other hand up to Dean's face.

Dean dipped his chin, surrendered to Castiel's touch, and peace was his reward. Blessed numbness washed over Dean in a way that he had hoped the rain would but couldn't. Castiel doused the fire with his holy touch, the freedom from pain originating in those places were Castiel and Dean touched and radiating out, blissfully swallowing the hunter whole.

"You should go back inside," Castiel admonished after a few seconds. When Dean didn't react in the slightest, Castiel began to move to stand.

Dean's hands on the angel's hips snaked around Castiel's back, and Dean was suddenly pressed against him, cheek on Castiel's chest. Castiel froze. He stared down at the top of Dean's head. The young hunter was holding on to him like the whole of his salvation depended on it. Then Dean whispered, "Please," like saving him was something Castiel might yet decide to withhold.

Castiel rested his hand on Dean's back. Through the thin material of the drenched t-shirt, he felt muscles and skin, the faint slide of bones as Dean's ribs moved with his breathing. Despite the rain, there was warmth in Dean's back.

This was what God loved so much about humanity. This was what He meant for His angels to love, too.

Castiel loved mankind through Dean, a representation of God's beloved creation, Dean's body heat and moving muscle and bone. He was beautiful as God meant for him to be. The angel dutifully loved him.

The strong thumping of his loaned heart, resting beneath Dean's ear, the stirring that position created… Castiel didn't know if that was the kind of affection his Father meant for angels to harbor toward human kind, too, but God had yet to tell him otherwise.

He knew only to follow what his judgment told him was right when his Father was silent, and keeping Dean safe felt ordained.

"Come inside," Castiel coaxed again, voice low since Dean's ears were so close. He could feel his chest rumble under Dean's head with the words.

Dean only held on tighter, unable to speak, mistrusting his own strength not to fly apart if he tried to talk.

Castiel sighed, relented, and pulled Dean closer to his body heat as they knelt on their knees in the parking lot. Castiel spread his wings over them and made a canopy to shield them from the rain.

To Be Continued…


	7. Chapter 7

"What if I do save the world?" Dean suddenly asked one day. Castiel looked down at Dean. Sam and Dean had stopped at a roadside rest stop on their unending drive to their final destinies. Sam went for a walk. Dean went over to a picnic table and took a seat on the bench, back to the table. When he blinked twice, Castiel was perched on the table beside him. Dean, beyond the need for asking by then, simply leaned toward the angel until his shoulder came flush against Castiel's leg.

Dean grasped at snatches of angelic grace, the unfeeling relief from his tormented soul, and he didn't make excuses or mask it anymore. Dean usually greeted Castiel with touch the second the angel appeared.

Castiel was beginning to think Dean's reliance on Castiel's presence was nearly as crippling as Sam's dependence on the demon blood.

It was hard for Castiel to tell himself to stay away, though.

"What do you mean?" Castiel asked.

Dean looked up at Castiel, his eyes guileless and troubled. "I mean… Cas, I don't sleep without you with me. What if I somehow manage to stop the apocalypse and by some _miracle_ I'm still alive? What happens to me?"

Castiel blinked, speechless.

"I can't expect you to still be my security blanket to keep the nightmares away after this is over. I'll have served my purpose."

"I realize that," Castiel said gravely.

Dean looked stricken, like he had hoped Castiel would assure him his fears were unfounded. But they weren't. God wouldn't spare an angel his greater responsibilities to safeguard the sleep of one human. There were always grander plans, bigger pictures, and when Dean was no longer the big picture, Castiel didn't doubt he would be called to serve elsewhere.

But it was hard to think about.

"Don't suppose you come in travel form," Dean joked dryly as he laid his head on Castiel's thigh, mindless of the family that had stopped to stretch their legs and the father that was looking reproachfully at the two men. "A Castiel teddy bear or something?"

Castiel hated to imagine Dean left to deal with his nightmares alone. Castiel knew how severe they were, and he was all too aware of how much Dean had come to need Castiel to get through them.

He didn't know what to tell Dean that wouldn't be a lie. That wouldn't be empty words of comfort; Dean wouldn't go for it. Dean wanted answers. He wanted salvation. He wanted his soul to be at peace.

"Can you learn to pray, Dean?" Castiel asked.

Dean paused before asking, "To God?"

"Yes."

Dean hesitated meaningfully. "No."

Castiel ached at the answer.

"I could… can I pray to you?" Dean asked.

Castiel fought the oddest impulse to squirm. "I'm only a servant, Dean. I'm not the one who deserves your prayer."

"You're the one who saved me."

"God commanded me to save you," Castiel countered, more whispered than forceful.

"Did he command you to come to me when I was being torn apart inside? Did he command you to sleep with me?" Dean asked pointedly, lifting his head from Castiel's thigh to meet the angel's gaze.

Castiel looked away. "No, He didn't." God never spoke against it, but He had not commanded it, either. That had been an action taken entirely on Castiel's initiative in the absence of his Father's guidance.

For a long time, neither Dean nor Castiel spoke.

"You can pray to me," Castiel finally said.

Dean mulled that over with a strangely calm acceptance. "Will you listen?"

"I always listen to you."

"I mean, once I'm not the prize fighter anymore," Dean clarified.

"I _will_ always listen to you."

Very faintly, Dean smiled. "That's why I could pray to you and not to God," Dean said matter-of-factly. "I know you can hear me."

"God hears."

"God has never come when I needed him. You always do. I'll stick with you." Dean sounded resolute on the matter.

"If that's what you want." It wasn't worth a fight. Dean had a strangely dichotomous relationship with religion. Saved from the depths of Hell by the command of God, but more willing to give his prayers to a messenger than God himself. So let Dean pray to Castiel. If Castiel heard Dean's prayers and they were important, Castiel could pass the word along.

He didn't think Heaven would mind if he kept one human under his protective wing, an ear to his prayers even after he'd won their battle. If Dean managed to save the world, he was due some special consideration.

Castiel and Dean sat quietly after that, content just to be in contact, the places where their bodies touched their anchors to Heaven and Earth, respectively.

Castiel noticed movement in the distance. They could see Sam coming in their direction along the side of the road. When Sam spotted Dean with the angel, he consciously slowed his pace. Gave them time. Sam made such great accommodations for the sake of his brother. Castiel still held out hope that the other Winchester could be saved. He has spent enough time with the brothers to understand that Sam being saved or falling would have a lot to do with what ended up happening to Dean.

"I'm going to be alone, aren't I?" Dean asked with whispered dread.

Castiel watched Sam coming their way, hands in his jacket pockets, shaggy hair lifting in the breeze, eyes glued to the angel and hunter on the picnic table as he approached.

In a sense, it was true that Dean would be alone. Castiel would no longer be free to rush to Dean's bedside to dispel his horrific nightmares. He couldn't sweep a hand of cool comfort up Dean's spine when the hunter was knotted with pain. He couldn't answer his every cry for help.

Castiel had become so accustomed to flying to Dean's aide, it was hard to imagine refraining from answering Dean's calls.

Castiel kept his eyes focused on Sam walking slowly toward them. Samuel Winchester, the relentless little brother. Maybe the only living soul that loved Dean more than Castiel and God combined.

"No, Dean… you won't be alone."

To Be Continued…


	8. Chapter 8

The next time Dean's soul called out for Castiel in the throes of a terrible nightmare borne of the hunter's forty years in Hell, the angel didn't answer.

Dean's soul screamed and yelled, echoed through the Heavens for so long and so loud that Castiel could hardly stand the din. Surely every angel in God's creation heard Dean's cries.

But he didn't go to Dean. He stayed tethered, involved, near, but he didn't go.

He watched.

Dean curled in on himself in bed, on the ragged edge of total meltdown. Sam watched helplessly from the other bed, eyes casting toward the ceiling.

"Where are you, Cas?" Sam called out angrily.

Dean's soul echoed the sentiment.

But Castiel didn't go.

Finally, Sam inched toward his brother's rigid form. With clear reticence, Sam reached toward his brother where he lay curled in a fetal position amid twisted sheets and damp pillowcases.

Dean pulled away at first.

Sam sat back, frustrated.

For a moment, it seemed they would give up.

Then Sam reached for Dean again.

The second time, Dean didn't jerk out of reach.

Sam's hand came tentatively to rest over Dean's shoulder. Castiel watched, a coil of something uneasy and unnamed in his core, as Sam gently dropped his hand over Castiel's spot on Dean's body. The fingers and palm that covered the contours of the hand-shaped scar didn't fit perfectly, but it wasn't entirely wrong there, either.

After several long, tense seconds, Dean relaxed marginally under his brother's hand and rolled stiffly on to his back to look over at Sam.

Sam forced a shaky smile. "It's going to be okay, Dean."

Dean looked dubious, but the silent screaming of his soul meant to bring Castiel from the farthest corners of Heaven and Hell dropped in volume.

Sam was talking, and Dean's soul quieted to listen.

Castiel left them alone then. He had come to believe one thing true above all else on Earth… these brothers needed to save each other in order to save themselves. Heaven and Hell had no place between them, no final say in their destinies that the Winchester brothers did not carve out with their own hands, destinies in blood and stone that spelled out each other's names.

The hardest thing Castiel ever did to save Dean's soul was turn away from him.

To Be Continued…


	9. Chapter 9

The first time Sam thought that he and Dean might eventually be okay, regardless of how the rest of the world fared, was the moment when Castiel reached out to touch Dean, and Dean shifted away.

Stepped back from Castiel and stepped closer to Sam.

END


End file.
